


Our Heartbeats Becoming Slow

by fluorineandsilver (myfavoritedemons)



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Slow Dancing, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 03:08:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18421560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myfavoritedemons/pseuds/fluorineandsilver
Summary: a snippet, written because i was listening to too much hozier and it made me melancholy





	Our Heartbeats Becoming Slow

“Can you stand?” Crozier asks. Fitzjames nods, finishes buttoning up his shirt, but stays seated on his cot. It’s cold outside, and cool here in the tent, but he’s still sweating. He’s not bleeding from his bullet wounds anymore, but even Goodsir’s plaster is a temporary measure. He needs real medical care, and urgently. They’re on borrowed time here, in this tent. James sways a little, then shakes his head as if to clear it.

“I’m all right, Francis,” he says.

“Like hell you are,” Crozier says. Fitzjames rolls his eyes.

“You know what I mean,” he replies. “Here, give me a hand.” Fitzjames reaches out and takes hold of Crozier to steady himself as he stands. Crozier braces himself. From somewhere outside, the sound of soft fiddling breaks through the oppressive silence of camp.

“Hartnell,” Crozier murmurs. “I can’t believe he’s still carrying that instrument around with him.” Fitzjames is still clutching his arm, leaning on him for support. The weight of him is solid, reassuring. Crozier has been having nightmares lately, of James crumbling to dust in his arms, scattered in the wind, beyond his reach. It’s comforting to touch him, to know the man is still here, alive despite everything. 

“I’m glad of it,” Fitzjames says. “To hear something besides wind and sick men.” Crozier hums his agreement. Every rattling cough, every moan, reminds him that these men are here under his orders. They’re his responsibility. There’s a hand at his shoulder then, and Fitzjames is shifting his grip on Crozier’s arm to take him by the hand instead of clutching his wrist. 

“James,” Crozier whispers. He puts his free hand against Fitzjames’s waist to provide support. They move closer.

“Dance with me,” Fitzjames says. 

The words ‘ _ I don’t dance _ ,’ leap unbidden to his lips in response, an old habit from Admiralty functions, but he keeps quiet. He won’t deny James this. He wouldn’t deny James anything he asked, at this point. He’d give him the Earth itself, if he could, and health and long life and safety...He blinks away tears. They sway in time with Hartnell’s mournful tune.

“I’m going to get you home, James,” Crozier says. “I swear it.” Fitzjames presses a kiss to his wet cheek.

“Shh,” he hushes. “Just dance. Worry about that later.”


End file.
